MEMORIAL   MEETING 


WILLIAM    CULLEN  BRYANT 


THE  CENTURY" 


II  2 


OVL 


FROM   THE  LIBRARY   OF 
REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON.   D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED   BY   HIM   TO 

THE  LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2013  witii  funding  from 

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http://archive.org/details/bryantmeOObrya 


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IJerwYoi'k,  IJ .  7\ppl(-i' 


BRYANT  MEMORIAL  MEETING 


OF  THE  CENTURY 


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\/\/;\\\a/^  dxA  \gN  ^Tv^arvit 


Tuesday  Evening,  Novembe7^  12th,   i8j8 


©irutuvij    ^0ams 


NEW  YORK 


Press  of 

G.   P.   Putnanis   Sons 

New    York. 


CONTENTS 


Introductory  .  .  .  .  .  .5 

Catalogue  of  Pictures  ....  7 

Program  .  .  .  .  .  .  .11 

Epicedium, 

By  Bayard   Taylor         .  .  .  .  13 

Oration, 

By  John  Bigelow        .  .  .  .  .21 

The  Dead  Master, 

By  R.   H.  Stoddard         .  .  .  .  6^ 

The   Death  of  Bryant, 

By    E.    C.    Stedman    .  .  .  .  71 


/^N  the  20th  of  June,  1878,  the  Board  of  Manage- 
^-^  ment  of  the  Century,  resolved  that  a  memorial 
meeting  of  its  members  should  be  held  in  honor  of 
their  late  President,  William  Cullen  Bryant. 

A  committee  consisting  of  F.  F.  Marbury,  John 
Bigelow,  E.  S.  Van  Winkle,  D.  Huntington,  and  A.  R. 
Macdonough,  was  appointed  to  make  arrangements  to 
carry  this  resolution  into  effect. 

The  meeting  was  held  on  Tuesday  Evening  the 
12th  of  November,  1878,  at  the  rooms  of  the  Century, 
which  were  decorated  for  the  occasion  with  numerous 
portraits  of  Mr.  Bryant  and  paintings  illustrative  of 
his  works. 

In  pursuance  of  a  resolution  of  the  board,  the  pro- 
ceedings of  the  meeting  are  now  published. 

Among  the  letters  received,  in  answer  to  invitations 
to  attend  the  meetinor,  the  followine  in  consideration 
of  the   age,  the  distinguished  character  of  the  writer. 


and  his  personal   relations  with  Mr.  Bryant  is  deemed 
worthy  of  preservation. 


Sheffield,  Nov.  gt/i,  iSyS. 

To    F.   Y.    Marbury,    Esq., 

Dear  Sir  : 

I  ought  to  be  present  if  I  eould — /.  c.^  if  my  age 
and  health  would  permit — at  the  Century,  on  the  approaching 
occasion,  which  it  will  devote  to  the  memory  of  Bryant. 

An  acquaintance  with  him,  not  to  say  friendship,  of  nearly 
half  a  century,  naturally  makes  me  wish  to  listen  to  what  will  be 
spoken  of  him,  and  to  the  strains  of  poetry  and  music  that  will 
interpret,  in  some  degree,  our  sorrow  for  his  loss. 

How  clear  from  all  question  is  the  fitness  of  this  commemora- 
tion of  him  !  There  was  nothing  in  his  character,  his  writings,  or 
his  life  to  chill  the  breath  of  eulogy,  or  to  check  the  flow  of 
melodious  verse  in  his  praise. 

I  cannot  use  my  pen  to  write  any  more,  but  to  say  that  I  am, 
with  thanks  for  the  invitation  of  your  Committee, 

Yours  in{/y, 

Orville   Dewey. 


CATALOGUE  OF  PICTURES 


EXHIBITED    AT   THE 


BRYANT     MEMORIAL     MEETING 


1.  Chas.  H.  Miller      .  .  .  Sketch  at  Roslyn. 

"  Here  I  have  ^scaped  the  City's  stifling  heat. 
It's  horrid  soutids  and  its  polluted  air." 

2.  R.  W.  Hubbard  ....  Autumn. 

"  Ay,   thoti  art  welcome,   heaven's  delicious  breath, 
When  woods  begin  to  wear  the  crimson  leaf." 

3.  D.   Huntington  .  .  Portrait  of  Thos.  Cole. 

"   Yet  Cole  !  thy  heart  shall  bear  to  Europe's  strand 
A  living  image  of  our  ozon  bright  land." 

4.  A.   H.  Wyant  ....  Landscape. 

' '   Where  now  the  solemn  shade. 

Verdure  and  gloom,  where  many  branches  meet ; 
So  grateful  when  the  noon  of  summer  made 
The  valleys  sick  with  heat." 

Portrait  of  Bryant,  — 1825. 

1876. 

.   Autumn  Landscape. 

"  I  wish  that  fate  had  left  me  free 

To  wander  these  quiet  haunts  with  thee, 
Till  the  eatijig  cares  of  Earth  should  depart, 
And  the  peace  of  the  scene  pass  into  my  heart  ; 
And  I  envy  thy  stream  as  it  glides  along, 
Thi'ough  the  beautiful  batiks. 
In  a  trance  of  song." 

9.     Thomas  HigKS         .  ,  Portrait  of  Bryant, — 1858. 


5. 

S. 

F.  B.  Morse 

6. 

A. 

B.  Durand 

7. 

T. 

LeClear 

8. 

S. 

R.    GiFFORD 

12. 

E. 

L. 

Henry 

13. 

S. 

R. 

GiFFORD 

14. 

J. 

L. 

Fitch 

8 

10.  J.  F.  Cropsey    .....     Landscape. 

"  Aurora,  rosy-fingered,  looked  abroad. '' 

11.  Jeryis  McEntee  .  .  .  "November." 

"   There  comes,  from  yonder  height 
A  soft  repining  sound, 
Where  forest  leaves  are  bright, 
A  ndfall,  like  flakes  of  light. 
To  the  gj-on)id." 

"A  Summer  Morning." 
Portrait  of  Bryant, — 1860. 

A  Mountain  Brook. 

' '  The  rivulet 
Sends  forth  glad  sounds,  and 

Tripping  o'er  its  bed 
Of  pebbly  sands,  or  leaping 

Down  the  rocks 
Seetns,  with  continuous  laughter. 

To  rejoice 
In  its  own  being." 

15.  Jeryis  McEntee  .  .  .  "Autumn." 

"  Oh  Autumn  !  why  so  soon 
Depart  the  hues  that  make  thy  forests  glad, 
Thy  gentle  wind  and  thy  fair  sunny  noon, 
And  leave  thee  wild  and  sad?  " 

16.  J.  L.  Fitch     .  .  .  .  Forest  Interior. 

* '  Father,  thy  hand 
Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns,  thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof. 
Thou  didst  look  upon  the  naked  earth. 
And  forth^vith  rose  all  these  fair  ranks  of  trees." 

17.  G.   H.  Hall  .  .  .  An  Oven  in  Pompei. 

18.  G.   H.   Hall     .       Portrait  of  John  Adams'  Daughter — after 

Copley. 

19.  W.  Homer    ....  On  the  Seashore. 

"  Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 

Of  weedy  lake,  or  ?narge  of  river  wide, 
Or  7vhere  the  rocking  billows  ;  ise 

And  sink 
On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ?  " 


9 

20.  A.  B.   DuRAND         .         Landscape — with  Portrait  Group  of 

Bryant  and  Cole. 

21.  J.  B.  Bristol  ..."  Green  River." 

"   When  breezes  are  soft  and  skies  are  fair, 
I  steal  an  hour  from  study  and  care. 
And  hie  7ne  away  to  the  woodland  scene 
Where  wanders  the  stream  with  zvaters  of  green." 

22.  L.   C.  Tiffany       .  .  Scene  in  Chambers  Street. 

"  Oh  !  glide  away  from  those  abodes,  that  b}ing 
Pollution  to  thy  channel," 

23.  J.  D.  Smillie  ....  Drawing. 

"  Knoiu ye  no  sadness  when  the  hurricane  has  swept,"  etc. 


II 


PROGR A  M 


I      MUSIC        Overture   to   Goethe  s    ^^  Ei'ffiofW        Beethoih 


2  POEM 

3  MUSIC 

4  ORATION 

5  MUSIC 

6  POEM 

7  MUSIC 

8  POEM 


BAYARD    TAYLOR. 


Traumerei  Schinnann. 


JOHN  BIGELOW. 


Marc  he  funebre 


Chopi7i. 


R.    H.    STODDARD. 


Nocturne  yungmann. 


E.    C.    STEDMAN. 


9      MUSIC  Selection  from    ^^  Tannhduser''  Wagner. 


Music   under  the  direction   of   Prof.   F.    I.   EBEN. 


13 

POEM  BY  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


EPICEDIUM. 
WILLIAM     CULLEN      BRYANT. 


Read  by  A.   R.   Macdonough. 
I. 

Say,  who  shall  mourn  him  first, 
Who  sang  In  days  for  Song  so  evil-starred, 
Shielding  from  adverse  winds  the  flame  he  nursed, 

Our  Country's  earliest  Bard  ? 

For  all  he  saner  survives 
In  stream,  and  tree,  and  bird,  and  mountain-crest, 
And  consecration  of  uplifted  lives 

To  Duty's  stern  behest ; 
Till,  like  an  echo  falling  late  and  far 
As  unto  Earth  the  answer  from  a  star, 
Alonof  his  thought's  so  nl^h  unnoted  track 

o  o  o 

Our  people's  heart  o'ertakes 
His  pure  design,  and  hears  him,  and  awakes 

To  breathe  Its  music  back  ! 
Approach,  sad  Forms,  now  fitly  to  employ 
The  grave  sweet  stops  of  all  melodious  sound, — 

Yet  undertoned  with  joy  ; 
For  him  ye  lose,  at  last  Is  truly  found. 


H 


II. 


Scarce  darkened  by  the  shadow  of  these  hours, 
The  Manltou  of  Flowers, 
Crowned  with  the  Painted-cup,  that  shakes 
Its  gleam  of  war-paint  on  his  dusky  cheek, 

Goes  by,  but  cannot  speak  ; 
Yet  tear,  or  dew-drop  'neath  his  coronal  breaks, 

And  in  his  drooping  hand 
The  azure  eyelids  of  the  gentian  die 

That  loves  the  yellow  autumn  land  ; 
The  wind-flower,  golden  rod. 
With  phlox  and  orchis,  nod  ; 
And  every  blossom  frail  and  shy 
No  careless  loiterer  sees. 
But  poet,  sun  and  breeze. 
And  the  bright  countenance  of  our  western  sky. 
They  knew  who  loved  them  :  they,  if  all 

Forgot  to  dress  his  pall. 
Or  strew  his  couch  of  long  repose. 
Would  from  the  prairies  and  the  central  snows 

The  sighing  West-wind  call. 
Their  withered  petals — even  as  tears,  to  bear. 

And,  like  a  Niobe  of  air, 
Upon  his  sea-side  grave  to  let  them  fall ! 


III. 

Next  you,  ye  many  Streams, 
That  make  a  music  through  his  cold,  green  land ! 

Whether  ye  scour  the  granite  slides 
In  broken  spray-light  or  in  sheeted  gleams, 

Or  in  dark  basins  stand. 
Your  bard's  fond  spirit  in  your  own  abides. 

Not  yours  the  wail  of  woe. 
Whose  joy  is  in  your  wild  and  wanton  flow, — 

Chill,  beautiful  Undines 
That  flash  white  hands  behind  your  thicket-screens, 
And  charm  the  wildwood  and  the  cloven  flumes 

To  hide  you  in  their  glooms ! 
But  he  hath  kissed  you,  and  his  lips  betray 
Your  coyest  secrets  ;  now,  no  more 
Your  bickering,  winking  tides  shall  stray 
Through  August's  idle  day. 
Or  showered  with  leaves  from  brown  November's  floor. 
Untamed,  and  rich  In  mystery 

As  we  were  w^ont  to  be ! 
From  where  the  dells  of  Graylock  feed 
Your  thin,  young  life,  to  where  the  Sangamon 
Breaks  with  his  winding  green  the  Western  mead, 
Delay  to  hasten  on ! 
Ask  not  the  clouds  and  hills 


To  swell  the  veins  of  your  obedient  rills, 

And  brim  your  banks  with  turbid  overflow  ; 
But  calmly,  soothly  go. 

Soft  as  a  sigh  and  limpid  as  a  tear, 
So  that  ye  seem  to  borrow 
The  voice  and  the  visage  of  sorrow. 

For  he  gave  you  glory  and  made  you  dear! 

IV. 

Strong  Winds  and  mighty  Mountains,  sovereign  Sea, 

What  shall  your  dirges  be  ? 
The  slow,  great  billow,  far  down  the  shore, 
Booms  in  its  breaking  :  ''  Dare — and  despair!  " 
The  fetterless  winds,  as  they  gather  and  roar, 
Are  evermore  crying  :   "  Where,  oh  where  ?  " 
The  mountain  summits,  with  ages  hoar. 
Say  :   ''  Near  and  austere,  but  far  and  fair !  " 

Shall  ye  in  your  sorrow  droop, 
Who  are  strong  and  sad,  and  who  cannot  stoop  ? 
Two  may  sing  to  him  where  he  lies, 
But  the  third  is  hidden  behind  the  skies. 

Ye  cannot  take  what  he  stole, 
And  made  his  own  in  his  inmost  soul! 

The  pulse  of  the  endless  Wave 
Beauty  and  breadth  to  his  strophes  gave  ; 

The  Winds  with  their  hands  unseen 


Held  him  poised  at  a  height  serene  ; 

And  the  world  that  wooed  him,  he  smiled  to  o'ercome  it  ; 

Whose  being  the  Mountains  made  so  strong, — 
Whose  forehead  arose  like  a  sunlighted  summit 

Over  eyes  that  were  fountains  of  thought  and  song  ! 


And  last,  ye  Forms,  with  shrouded  face 
Hiding  the  features  of  your  woe. 
That  on  the  fresh  sod  of  his  burial-place 

Your  myrtle,  oak  and  laurel  throw, — 
Who  are  ye  ? — whence  your  silent  sorrow  ? 
Strange  is  your  aspect,  alien  your  attire  : 
Shall  we,  who  knew  him,  borrow 
Your  unknown  speech  for  Griefs  august  desire  ? 

Lo !  one,  with  lifted  brow 
Says,  "  Nay,  he  knew  and  loved  me  :   I  am  Spain  ! 
Another,  "  I  am  Germany, 
Drawn  sadly  nearer  now 
By  songs  of  his  and  mine  that  make  one  strain, 
Though  parted  by  the  world-dividing  sea !  " 
And  from  the  hills  of  Greece  there  blew 
A  wind  that  shook  the  olives  of  Peru,     • 

Till  all  the  world  that  knew. 
Or,  knowing  not,  shall  yet  awake  to  know 
The  sweet  humanity  that  fused  his  song, — 


i8 


The  haughty  challenge  unto  \\"rong, 
And  for  the  trampled  Truth  his  fearless  blow, — 

Acknowledged  his  exalted  mood 
Of  faith  achieved  in  song-born  solitude, 

And  give  him  high  acclaim 
With  those  who  followed  Good,  and  found  it  Fame! 


VI. 


Ah,  no  ! — why  should  we  mourn 
The  noble  life  that  wore  its  crown  of  years  ? 
Why  drop  these  tender,  unavailing  tears 
Upon  a  fate  of  no  fulfilment  shorn  ? 

He  was  too  proud  to  seek 
That  which  should  come  unasked  ;  and  came, 
Kindling  and  brightening  as  a  wind-blown  flame 
When  he  had  waited  long, 
And  life — but  never  art — was  weak. 
But  youthful  will  and  sympathy  were  strong 
In  white-browed  eye  and  hoary-bearded  cheek  ; 
Until,  when  called  at  last 
That  later  life  to  celebrate. 
Wherein,  dear  Italy,  for  thine  estate. 
The  glorious  Present  joined  the  glorious  Past, 

He  fell,  and  ceased  to  be ! 
We  could  not  yield  him  grandlier  than  thus. 


When,  for  thy  hero  speaking,  he 
Spake  equally  for  us  ! — 
His  last  word,  as  his  first,  was  Liberty ! 
His  last  word,  as  his  first,  for  Truth 
Struck  to  the  heart  of  age  and  youth  : 
He  sought  her  everywhere. 
In  the  loud  city,  forest,  sea  and  air  : 
He  bowed  to  wisdom  other  than  his  own, 
To  wisdom  and  to  law. 
Concealed,  or  dimly  shown 
In  all  he  knew  not,  all  he  knew  and  saw, 
Trusting  the  Present,  tolerant  of  the  Past, 

Firm-faithed  in  what  shall  come 
When  the  vain  noises  of  these  days  are  dumb  ; 
And  his  first  word  was  noble  as  his  last. 


ORATION 


JOHN   BIGELOW. 


T  T  THEN  Dante  was  invited  by  the  Council  of  his 
^  ^  native  city  to  undertake  a  conciliatory  embassy 
to  the  pontifical  court  at  Rome,  he  is  said  to  have  re- 
plied after  some  hesitation,  but  with  that  frankness 
which  is  one  of  the  prerogatives  of  genius  : 

If  I  go,  who  remains  ? 

If  I  remain,  who  goes  ? 

Before  many  who  hear  me  were  born,  our  lamented 
colleague,  in  memory  of  whom  we  are  assembled  this 
evening,  occupied  an  eminence  which  placed  his 
country  in  a  not  dissimilar  dilemma. 

And  now  that  he  is  gone  we  may  ask  with  no 
feigned  humility,  Who  remains  ?  Who  shall  now 
strike  that  lyre  to  which  for  more  than  three  genera- 
tions Nature  has  been  confiding  the  secrets  of  her 
heavenly  parentage. 


Who  shall  henceforth  be  our  daily  evening  coun- 
sellor and  occupy  among  us  that  seat  of  authority 
which,  like  Job,  "  he  prepared  in  the  street  ;  in  awe  of 
whom  the  young  men  hid  themselves,  the  aged  arose 
and  stood  up,  the  princes  refrained  from  talking  and 
laid  their  hands  upon  their  mouths  ?  " 

Who  remains  to  lend  Jiis  dignity  of  character  and 
graces  of  discourse  to  those  great  occasions  when 
a  national  expression  was  to  be  given  to  national 
emotions  ? 

Who  shall  fill  his  place  in  this  bereaved  circle  of 
which  from  its  birth  he  was  the  charm,  the  ornament 
and  the  pride  ? 

That  he  cannot  be  here  to-night  to  weave  the 
wTeath  of  Cyprus  for  that  tomb  to  wdiich  we  have  so 
recently  consigned  his  mortal  remains,  brings  home  to 
the  Century  a  new  sense  of  the  irreparable  loss  it  has 
sustained  ;  of  the  extent  to  which  it  is  impoverished. 

In  consenting  to  be  one  of  the  interpreters  of  the 
emotions  of  this  assembly  in  which  Bryant  was  so 
intimately  and  thoroughly  known,  I  feel  that  I  shall 
meet  all  your  just  expectations,  if  I  submit  to  you  some 
of  the  more  durable  impressions  which  our  late  revered 
associate  left  upon  my  mind  during  an  acquaintance  of 
nearly  forty  years  ;  leaving  to  a  more  impartial  speak- 
er, and  perhaps  to   a  more  impartial  tribunal,  the  re- 


23 

sponsible  task  of  defining  the  rank  he  is  ultimately  to 
take  among  those  who  have  been  conspicuous  in 
moulding  the  opinions  and  shaping  the  destinies  of 
men. 

Bryant  was  six  years  older  than  the  century  ;  of 
noble  birth,  for  both  his  parents  were  descended  from 
passengers  in  the  Mayflower.  He  began  to  distil  the 
lessons  of  life  into  popular  verse  while  yet  a  child,  and 
while  most  boys  are  wTestling  with  the  elementary 
laws  of  grammar  and  numeration. 

At  eighteen  he  had  produced  a  poem  of  which  no 
poet  of  any  age  would  have  disdained  to  be  the  au- 
thor. He  was  then  recently  admitted  to  the  bar  of 
his  native  state,  to  which  calling  his  fellow  citizens 
added  the  responsibilities  of  a  Justice  of  the  Peace. 
But  he  had  already  "  conversed  with  promises."  The 
fame  which  the  publication  of  "  Thanatopsis "  in 
1816,  and  the  "  Ages"  in  1821,  had  secured  him,  had 
opened  to  his  vision  a  wider  horizon. 

An  impression  has  prevailed  that  Bryant  quit 
the  profession  of  the  law  doubting  his  fitness  to 
succeed  in  it ;  that  he  was  too  shy,  too  fond  ot 
seclusion  and  too  indisposed  to  the  aggressive  and 
contentious  sort  of  life  throuo^h  which  the  hiorher  re- 
wards  of  that  profession  are  commonly  attained.  I 
shall  take  the  liberty  of  saying  that  I  do  not  share  this 


24 

opinion.  I  do  not  think  that  he  quit  the  bar  from  any 
mistrust  of  his  abihty  to  succeed  as  a  lawyer,  but  be- 
cause he  foresaw  a  speedier  and  a  greater  success 
within  his  reach.  At  the  early  age  at  w^hich  he  for- 
sook the  profession,  he  could  not  in  the  nature  of 
things  have  acquired  any  considerable  reputation  in  it, 
while  as  a  poet  he  was  already  famous.  In  the  law  he 
was  still  planting,  while  as  a  writer,  the  harvest  was 
ripe  and  ready  for  his  sickle. 

I  do  not  know  of  any  one  qualification  for  success 
in  many  of  the  various  departments  of  the  legal  pro- 
fession, with  which  Mr.  Bryant  was  not  eminently 
equipped.  Because  his  genius  lifted  him  while  yet  a 
boy  to  a  sphere  where  he  had  to  deal  with  the  strug- 
gles of  mankind,  it  by  no  means  follows  that  he  could 
have  dealt  less  successfully  with  the  contests  of  indi- 
vidual men  :  He  had  a  prodigious  power  of  acquiring 
knowledge,  which  made  him  one  of  the  most  accom- 
plished men  of  his  age  ;  a  mind  singularly  clear  and 
difficult  to  sophisticate  ;  habits  of  industry  which  would 
appall  most  men  who  think  themselves  industrious,  and 
a  devotion  to  duty  and  a  fidelity  to  engagements 
which  would  have  inspired  the  unlimited  confidence  of 
courts,  juries  and  clients.  All  these  qualities  are  too 
rarely  united  in  any  person  to  leave  a  doubt  that  they 
would  have  given   Bryant  a  relative  eminence  at  the 


25 

bar  as  Incontestlble  as  that  which  he  was  destined  to 
obtain  in  hterature. 

It  was  natural  that  the  writer  of  the  two  best  poems 
which,  up  to  that  time,  had  been  produced  in  our 
country,  should  attract  the  notice  of  the  publishers, 
whose  glasses  are  always  ranging  the  horizon  in  quest 
of  new  stars  of  which  they  may  appropriate  the  radi- 
ance. The  result  was  an  invitation,  of  which  without 
much  hesitation  Bryant  availed  himself,  to  come  to 
New  York  and  become  one  of  the  editors  of  the  New 
York  Review  and  Athenceu7n  Magazine.  In  this  early 
putting  off  the  grub  and  putting  on  the  butterfly,  the 
bar  lost  one  whom  I  will  persist  in  thinking  might 
have  become  one  of  its  greatest  ornaments,  but  lost  it 
only  as  the  meadow  parts  with  its  grasses  that  they 
may  become  the  constituents  of  a  higher  organized 
life. 

Mr.  Bryant  took  up  his  residence  in  New  York 
and  the  profession  to  which  he  was  to  give  dignity 
and  distinction,  in  the  winter  of  1824-5,  and  in  the 
thirtieth  year  of  his  age.  In  making  this  change  he 
showed  an  accuracy  in  measuring  his  forces  for  which 
he  was  noted  through  life.  He  at  once  set  in  the 
clouds  that  bow  of  promise  at  the  feet  of  which  for- 
tune and  fame  are  buried.  The  very  first  number  of 
his  new  magazine  contained   two  poems  which  even 


26 

now  would  establish  the  character  of  any  periodical 
enterprise,  the  "  Marco  Bozarus"  of  Halleck  and  his 
own  "  Song  of  Pitcalrns  Island."  The  latter  verses, 
which  a  journalist  of  the  time  fitly  styled  ''  one  of  the 
sweetest  pictures  that  a  highly  cultivated  fancy  ever 
drew,"  I  have  reason  to  believe  was  always  as  great 
a  favorite  with  its  author  as  with  its  readers. 

But  ]\Ir.  Brvaxt  was  always  too  faithful  to  his  pil- 
grim lineage,  too  earnest  in  his  convictions,  too  deeply 
interested  in  the  great  social  and  political  problems  of 
his  time,  "  to  dream  away  his  years  in  the  arms  of  the 
muses,  like  Endymion  in  the  embrace  of  the  moon." 
Another  change  awaited  him.  In  the  following  year, 
1826,  he  was  invited  to  share  in  the  editorship  of  the 
Evening  Post  of  this  city,  a  daily  paper,  like  himself 
a  few  years  older  than  the  current  century,  founded 
under  the  political  auspices  of  Alexander  Hamilton, 
and  always  exerting  an  important  influence  in  the 
country.  The  only  conditions  which  Mr.  Bryant 
attached  to  his  acceptance  of  the  position,  I  have 
heard  him  say,  was  the  privilege  of  advocating  a  re- 
moval of  needless  restrictions  upon  commerce  and  a 
separation  of  government  moneys  from  the  banking 
capital  of  the  country.  These  conditions  proved  no 
obstacle  to  an  arrangement,  neither  of  the  parties 
dreaming  at  the  time,  I   presume,  that  he  was  taking 


27 

a  step  which  was  to  associate  their  journal,  for  the 
next  quarter  of  a  century,  with  the  fortunes  of  a 
poHtical  party  which  it  had  been  founded  to  oppose, 
and  if  possible  destroy. 

From  this  time  forth,  and  until  the  close  of  his  lono^ 
life,  a  period  of  fifty-two  years,  and  covering  the  ad- 
ministrations of  nine  Presidents,  Mr.  Bryant  continued 
in  the  editorship  of  the  Evening  Post.  He  never  en- 
gaged in  any  other  business  enterprise  ;  he  never  em- 
barked in  any  financial  speculations  ;  he  was  never  an 
officer  of  any  other  financial  or  industrial  corporation, 
nor  did  he  ever  accept  any  political  office  or  trust.  He 
had  found  an  employment  at  last  that  was  entirely  con- 
genial to  him,  and  one,  as  Dr.  Bellows  has  wisely  said, 
which  "  most  fully  economised  his  temperament  and 
faculties  for  the  public  service  ;  "  and  he  was  as  loyal 
to  his  profession  as  it  was  to  him.  I  think  it  quite 
safe  to  say  that  for  five  days  out  of  every  week 
during  at  least  forty- two  of  his  fifty- two  years  of  edi- 
torial service,  Mr.  Bryant  was  at  his  editorial  desk 
before  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  left  the  daily 
impress  of  his  character  and  genius  in  some  form  upon 
the  columns  of  his  journal.  When  the  length  of  his 
career  as  editor  is  considered,  it  may  be  assumed  that 
Mr.  Bryant  was  one  of  the  most  voluminous  prose 
Avriters  that  ever  lived,  and  to   this   audience    I   need 


28 

hardly  add,  one  of  the  best.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
name  a  single  topic  of  national  importance,  or  which 
has  occupied  any  considerable  share  of  public  attention 
during  the  last  half  century,  upon  which  Bryant  did 
not  find  occasion  to  form  and  publish  an  opinion,  an 
opinion  too,  which  always  commanded  the  respect,  if 
not  the  adhesion  of  his  readers. 

Though  journalism  is  a  comparatively  modern  pro- 
fession, it  is  already  divided  into  schools,  two  of  which 
are  well  defined.  .One  aims  to  daguerreotype  the 
events  and  humors  of  the  day,  whatever  they  may  be  ; 
the  other,  to  direct  and  shape  those  events  and  humors 
to  special  standards.  One  is  merely  a  reflector  of  what 
passes  across  its  field  ;  the  other,  a  lens  converging 
the  news  of  the  day  like  the  rays  of  light  in  specific 
directions.  One  is  the  school  of  the  real  and  the  other 
of  the  ideal.  A  journal  of  the  former  class,  of  which 
the  London  Times  and  the  New  York  Herald  are  per- 
haps the  most  distinguished  specimens  to-day,  is  essen- 
tially an  ephemeron.  Each  day's  publication  is  com- 
plete, having  no  necessary  dependence  upon  any  pub- 
lication preceding  or  to  follow  it.  It  is  simply  the 
living  body  of  that  portion  of  time  which  has  elapsed 
since  its  previous  issue.  It  masquerades  with  its 
readers  in  the  idolatry  or  passion  of  to-day,  and  to- 
morrow perhaps  with  them  it  clothes  itself  in  the  sack- 


29 

cloth  and  ashes  of  repentance.  The  other  school  aims 
to  control  and  direct  society  ;  to  teach  and  to  lead  it ; 
to  tell  not  so  much  what  it  has  been  doine  as  what  it 
oueht  to  do  or  to  have  done.  As  such  it  must  be 
consistent  with  itself  and  teach  its  doctrines  in  their 
purity,  irrespective  of  the  fluctuations  of  public  opinion. 

It  was  to  the  latter  school  of  journalism  that  Mr. 
Bryant  belonged.  The  amelioration  of  society  was 
the  warp  with  which  he  was  always  striving  to  inter- 
weave the  woof  of  current  events. 

I  will  not  undertake  to  say  which  of  these  two 
schools  of  journalism  is  the  more  useful.  Both  are 
useful  ;  neither  can  be  spared  ;  but  they  invite  very 
different  orders  of  mind  and  a  very  different  range  of 
accomplishments.  I  doubt  if  the  school  to  which  Mr. 
Bryant  belonged,  and  of  which  Coleridge  and  Southey 
were  conspicuous  ornaments  in  their  earlier  years, 
ever  had  his  superior  ;  if  it  ever  had  a  pen  in  its 
service  which  wrote  so  admirably,  as  much  that  was 
sound  and  profitable,  with  so  little  that  was  neither 
sound  nor  profitable. 

It  is  possible  that  his  power  as  a  journalist  might 
have  been  increased  by  a  larger  intercourse  with  the 
world.  During  the  more  active  stages  of  his  profes- 
sional career  he  saw  comparatively  few  people  save 
those  who  sought  him  at  his  office,  and  these  consisted 


30 

largely,  of  course,  of  those  who  had  personal  ends  to 
serve  by  the  visit.  This  isolation  made  it  so  much 
easier  for  designing  men  to  disguise  the  antipathies, 
prejudices  and  selfishness  which  often  prompted  their 
suggestions.  A  larger  commerce  with  the  world 
would  have  rectified  erroneous  impressions  sometimes 
left  upon  his  mind  by  this  class  of  parasites,  who  usu- 
ally approached  him  on  the  moral  side  of  his  nature, 
because  it  was  the  most  impressionable. 

Though  accustomed  daily  for  more  than  half  a  cen- 
tury to  discuss  professionally  the  doings  of  our  Federal 
and  State  Governments,  he  was  never  at  Washington 
or  at  Albany,  I  believe,  but  once,  except  as  a  traveller 
passing  through  those  capitals  to  some  remoter  point. 
I  once  urged  him  to  visit  Washington  during  an  im- 
portant crisis  in  our  struggle  for  free  labor  and  free 
speech.  He  declined,  assigning  as  a  reason  that 
he  had  been  there  once  ; — I  think  it  was  during  the 
administration  of  President  Van  Buren — and  found 
that  he  was  more  content  with  the  judgment  he  formed 
in  his  office,  of  the  doings  at  the  seat  of  Government 
than  with  any  he  was  able  to  form  under  the  shadow 
of  the  Capitol.  He  shrunk  too  from  the  restraints 
which  personal  intercourse  with  the  public  servants 
imposed  upon  the  freedom  of  his  pen.  According  to 
his  view,  a  journalist  did  less  than  his  duty  who  did 


not  strive  at  least  to  leave  the  world  better  than  he 
found  it  ;  who  did  not  wrestle  with  those  social  and 
political  abuses  which  are  amenable  to  public  opinion. 
The  reform  of  society,  like  Mahomed's  paradise,  lies 
in  the  shadow  of  crossed  swords.  Controversy  there- 
fore, always  earnest  and  sometimes  acrimonious  with 
those  whom  he  regarded  as  the  Amorites,  the  Hivites 
and  the  Perrizites  of  the  land  was  inevitable.  He 
shrank  to  the  verge  of  rudeness  from  all  social,  profes- 
sional or  political  entanglements  which  in  any  way 
threatened  his  freedom  of  speech  or  the  equilibrium  of 
his  judgment.  He  had  no  personal  antagonisms,  but 
he  could  not  compromise  or  transact  with  those  whom 
he  regarded  as  the  enemies  of  society. 

This  jealousy  of  his  independence  accounted  in  part 
for  the  fact  that  he  never  held  any  political  office. 
The  conditions  which  usually  attach  to  political  honors 
in  our  country  are  hardly  consistent  with  the  judicial 
attitude  which  a  journalist  of  the  Bryant  school  pro- 
fesses to  occupy,  and  sooner  or  later  must  interfere 
with  his  freedom  of  discussion  on  the  one  hand,  or 
with  that  loyalty  to  his  party  which  is  a  more  or  less 
important  element  of  his  power  on  the  other.  No  one 
knew  better  than  Mr.  Bryant  that  the  beneficiary  or 
dependent  of  a  party  is  not  in  a  position  to  criticise  or 
defend  it  with  authority. 


32 

In  1874,  while  a  guest  of  Governor  Tilden  a  few 
clays  at  Albany,  he  was  tendered  a  complimentary  re- 
ception from  both  branches  of  the  legislature.  On  his 
return  I  asked  him  if  that  was  not  the  first  official  at- 
tention he  had  ever  received  from  any  federal,  state, 
or  municipal  body.  He  said  it  was.  We  had  then 
both  forgotten  what  I  believe  to  be  the  single  excep- 
tion. While  absent  on  the  second  of  his  three  visits 
to  the  Old  World,  he  was  elected  a  Regent  of  the 
University  of  the  State  of  New  York.  The  mail  fol- 
lowing that  which  bore  the  intelligence,  brought  me 
the  following  letter  : 

Paris,  July  9th,  1858. 
To  John  Bigelow,  Esq.: 

My  Dear  Sir — I  learn,  through  the  newspapers,  that  I  have  been  elected  by 
the  New  York  Legislature  a  Regent  of  the  University.  I  will  not  affect  to  un- 
dervalue the  favorable  opinion  of  so  respectable  a  public  body,  manifested  in 
so  spontaneous  a  manner,  without  the  least  solicitation  on  the  part  of  my 
friends,  and  I  beg  that  this  letter  may  be  used  as  an  expression  of  my  best 
thanks. 

There  are,  however,  many  motives  which  make  it  necessary  for  me  to  decline 
the  appointment,  and  among  these  are  my  absence  from  the  country,  the  incon- 
venience of  combining  the  duties  of  the  place  \\'ith  the  pursuits  in  which  I  am 
engaged  when  at  home,  and  my  aversion  to  any  form  of  public  life  now,  by  my 
long  habit  made,  I  fear  invincible.  I  therefore  desire  by  this  letter  to  return 
the  appointment  to  the  kind  hands  whicli  have  sought  to  confer  it  upon  nie, 
confident  that  some  worthier  person  will  easily  be  found,  who  will  ])ring  the 
necessary  alacrity  to  the  performance  of  its  duties. 

I  am,  dear  sir,   very  truly  yours, 

W.  C.  BRYANT. 


33 

This  letter  recalls  the  reply  which  Mr.  Faraday,  one 
of  the  master  spirits  of  the  Victorian  Age,  gave  to  his 
friend  Tyndall,  who  had  urged  him  to  accept  the  Pres- 
idency of  the  Royal  Society  :  "Tyndall,"  said  he,  ''  I 
must  remain  plain  Michael  P^araday  to  the  last ;  and 
let  me  now  tell  you  that  if  I  accepted  the  honor  which 
the  Royal  Society  desires  to  confer  upon  me,  I  would 
not  answer  for  the  integrity  of  my  intellect  a  single 
year." 

Whether  Mr.  Bryant  ever  mistrusted  the  integrity 
of  his  intellect,  no  one  probably  but  the  Master  knows, 
but  that  the  struggle  to  maintain  its  integrity  as  a 
journalist  while  wearing  the  chains  and  livery  of  ofhce, 
would  be  much  more  severe  and  that,  as  a  dependent 
of  government  his  word  would  be  deprived  of  much  of 
its  power,  and  that  these  were  considerations  which 
had  great  weight  in  determining  him  to  give  to  his 
journal  an  undivided  allegiance,  no  one  who  knew  him 
well,  can  for  one  moment  doubt. 

But  his  lack  of  official  distinction  had  its  compen- 
sations. No  one  of  equal  eminence  probably  ever 
suffered  less  than  Bryant  from  the  envy  and  jealousy 
of  others,  and  mainly  because  he  never  sought  nor 
accepted  honors  which  others  coveted. 

Petrarch  lived  to  bewail  the  zeal  with  which,  in  the 
youth   of  his    fame,  he    sought    the    laurel    crown    at 


34 

Rome.  "  Had  I  been  more  advanced  In  years,"  he 
said,  ''  I  should  have  refused  it.  This  crown  has 
neither  made  me  more  learned,  nor  more  eloquent, 
it  has  deprived  me  of  repose  and  filled  me  with  dis- 
trust." To  all  such  repinings,  I  take  no  risk  in  saying, 
that  Bryant  was  utterly  a  stranger. 

But  there  were  other  considerations  which  no  doubt 
had  their  weight  in  keeping  his  name  out  of  the  list 
of  competitors  for  official  honors.  No  man's  greatness 
ever  appears  more  lustrous  than  when  declining  dis- 
tinctions which  are  the  common  objects  of  ambition. 
Long  before  he  had  achieved  any  rank  as  a  political 
journalist,  he  had  attained  a  reputation  as  a  man  of 
letters  to  which  public  station  could  add  very  little,  if 
anything.  There  is  a  wise  old  proverb,  that  any  man 
can  afford  to  go  on  foot  wdio  leads  his  horse.  Earl 
Russell  could  afford  to  decline  a  resting  place  in 
Westminister  Abbey,  with  the  ancestral  vault  of  the 
Bedfords  awaiting  him  at  the  Chenies.  It  required  no 
great  effort  of  self  denial  for  Beranger  to  decline  a  seat 
in  the  Academy,  and  what  he  termed  the  brimborions 
of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  to  remain  the  poet  of  the 
French  Revolution,  under  the  magic  of  whose  melo- 
dious incantations  thrones  were  tottering  and  dynasties 
were  returning  to  the  dust  from  which  they  sprang. 
Long    before    Bryant    had    achieved    an)'   rank    as    a 


35 

political  journalist,  he  was  justified  in  the  belief  that 
his  reputation  was  already  of  a  finer  texture  than  any 
of  our  political  looms    could  weave. 

At  the  funeral  of  one  of  the  Caesars,  who  was 
a  sister  of  Brutus  and  widow  of  Cassius,  Tacitus 
tells  us  that  as  a  mark  of  special  distinction,  Tiberius 
directed  the  statues  of  twenty  of  the  most  illustrious 
families  of  Rome  to  be  borne  in  the  procession.  But, 
says  the  inexorable  historian,  Brutus  and  Cassius  out- 
shone them  all  by  reason  of  their  statues  not  being 
among  them.  Sed  praefidgeba7it  Cassius  atqiie  Bruhts 
eo  ipso  qiLod  effigies  eoriun  non  visebantiir:'-' 

Whether  Tiberius  could  as  well  afford  their  ab- 
sence, and  whether  our  country  could  as  well  afford 
to  deprive  itself  of  the  weight  of  Mr.  Brvaxt's  great 
name  and  character  in  its  administrative  councils,  are 
questions  which  this  is  not  a  suitable  occasion  to 
discuss. 

With  Mr.  Brvaxt's  accomplishments  as  an  artist, 
and  his  wide  range  of  faculties  for  literary  work,  there 
is  still  one  key  without  which  it  is  impossible  to  reach 
the  secret  of  his  influence,  whether  as  a  poet,  a  journ- 
alist, a  citizen  or  a  companion.  I  refer  to  his  wonder- 
fully complete  moral  organization.  He  was  one  of  the 
most  truthful   men    I   ever  knew.     Not   only  was   his 

*  Annales  Lib.  3,  LXXVI. 


36 

Speech  truthful,  but  his  silence  was  truthful.  What  he 
did,  and  what  he  did  not  do  ;  what  he  said  and 
what  he  did  not  say,  alike  bore  testimony  to  the 
uprightness  of  his  character.  Like  Milton,  he  was 
very  sparing  of  praise,  hence  the  great  value  which 
his  praise  always  possessed.  His  memorial  discourses 
on  Irving,  and  Cooper,  and  Halleck,  and  Verplanck, 
are  models  in  all  respects,  but  especially  in  their  truth- 
ful discrimination  of  the  qualities  for  which  those 
founders  of  our  literature  were  respectively  distin- 
guished. He  did  not  arraign  their  poverty  by  ascrib- 
ing to  either  merits  he  did  not  possess. 

Plutarch  tells  us  of  a  Roman  judge  refusing  to  act 
upon  the  testimony  of  a  single  witness  in  a  case  where 
the  law  required  the  testimony  of  two  witnesses. 
"  No,"  said  the  judge,  ''  not  even  if  Cato  himself  were 
the  witness."  This  country  has  probably  produced  no 
person  to  whose  truthfulness  a  similar  homage  from 
the  bench  would  seem  less  inappropriate  than  to 
Bryant.  A  statement  from  him  required  no  sanction. 
His  profound  conscientiousness  too,  invested  his  char- 
acter with  an  atmosphere  in  which  no  unworth)'  or 
degrading  purpose  could  breathe  or  exist  for  a  mo- 
ment. And  here  lay  the  secret  of  a  personal  dignity 
which  with  him  was  more  than  majestic.  Though 
with  his  friends  one  of  the  most  genial  and  to  all  the 


37 

world  the  most  unpretending  of  men,  one  would  as 
soon  think  of  taking  a  liberty  with  the  Pope  as  with 
Bryant. 

The  impression  he  left  upon  strangers  when  first 
presented  to  him  was  apt  to  be  chilling.  Though 
never  unkind,  his  manner  in  such  cases  was  not  re- 
sponsive. His  greetings  were  discouraging,  especially 
to  the  numbers  whose  admiration  for  him  had  been 
feeding  for  years  upon  an  ideal  shaped  from  his  works, 
and  who  regarded  an  introduction  to  him  as  an  epoch 
in  their  lives.  This  apparent  want  of  cordiality  did 
not  result  from  insensibility,  nor  wholly  from  his  con- 
stitutional aversion  to  be  lionized,  but  rather  from  an 
unwillingness  to  express  in  any  way  a  greater  degree 
of  interest  than  he  felt.  As  soon  as  acquaintance 
ripened  a  feeling  of  greater  cordiality,  his  manner 
betrayed  it,  but  always  within  the  limits  of  the  strictest 
truthfulness.     He  spoke  and  lived 

"  As  ever  in  his  great  task  Master's  eye," 

and  expecting  to  account  for  every  word  he  uttered. 

Whoever  will  adopt  the  same  lofty  rule  in  his  inter- 
course with  the  world,  will  soon  find  the  true  explana- 
tion of  much  that  in  Bryant  was  attributed  to  a  cold 
and  unsympathetic  treatment.  He  took  little  note  of 
any  but  moral  distinctions  among  men.  Mere  worldly 
rank  impressed  him  less  than  almost  any  man  I  ever 


38 

knew.  I  was  once  his  guest  at  Roslyn  with  a  for- 
eigner of  some  distinction,  who  at  the  close  of  the  first 
repast  after  our  arrival,  presumed  upon  the  privilege 
accorded  to  persons  of  his  rank  at  home  to  rise  first 
and  dismiss  the  table.  Mr.  Bryant  joined  me  on  our 
wa}'  to  the  parlor,  and  with  an  expression  of  undis- 
guised astonishment  asked  me,  "  Did  you  see  that?  " 
I  replied  that  I  did,  and  with  a  view  of  extenuating 
the  gentleman's  offense  as  much  as  I  could,  said  that 
he  evidently  thought  he  only  was  exercising  one  of 
the  recognized  prerogatives  of  his  order.  "  Well,"  he 
said,  "  he  will  have  no  opportunity  of  repeating  it 
here  ;  "  and  he  was  as  good  as  his  word,  for  during 
the  remainder  of  our  sojourn,  no  one  was  left  in  doubt 
whose  prerogative  it  was  in  that  house  to  dismiss  the 
table.  Some  weeks  later  he  alluded  to  this  incident 
and  quoted  from  a  conversation  he  had  once  held  with 
Fenimore  Cooper,  his  strictures  upon  this  exasperat- 
ing assumption  of  the  titled  classes  in  some  communi- 
ties of  the  old  world.  He  was  willinor  that  others 
should  adopt  any  standard  that  pleased  them  best,  by 
which  to  rate  their  fellows,  himselt  included,  but  he 
would  not  accept  directly  or  indirectly  for  himself  any 
other  standard  than  that  which,  so  far  as  he  knew,  his 
Maker  would  apply. 

As   Bryant,  from   the   day  he   embarked  in  journal- 


39 

ism,  continued  a  journalist  until  the  close  of  his  life, 
from  a  yet  earlier  period  of  his  life  to  its  close  he 
never  ceased  to  be  a  poet ;  reminding  us  of  Cowley's 
remark  that  it  is  seldom  seen  that  the  poet  dies  before 
the  man.  But  Bryant  never  confounded  the  two  vo- 
cations in  any  way,  or  allowed  either  to  interfere  to 
any  appreciable  extent  with  the  other.  They  consti- 
tuted two  separate  and  distinct  currents  of  intellectual 
life,  one  running  through  the  other  if  you  please,  but 
never  mixing  with  it,  as  the  gulf-stream  winds  its  way 
through  the  broad  Atlantic,  though  always  distin- 
guished from  it  by  its  higher  temperature.  None  of 
the  more  vulgar  considerations  of  authorship  ever 
operated  upon  his  muse  so  far  as  I  was  ever  able  to 
discern.  He  never  sang  for  money  ;  neither  did  he 
use  his  poetical  gifts  for  worldly  or  professional  ends. 
He  used  his  feet  for  walking  and  he  used  his  winos 
for  flying,  but  he  never  attempted  to  fly  with  his  feet 
nor  to  run  with  his  wings.  He  earned  his  bread,  and 
he  fought  the  battle  of  life  with  his  journal,  but  he 
made  no  secret  of  the  fact  that  he  looked  to  his  verses 
for  the  perpetuation  of  his  name  ;  when  he  put  on  his 
singing  robes  he  practically  withdrew  from  the  world 
and  went  up  into  a  high  mountain,  where  the  din  and 
clamor  of  professional  life  in  which  he  habitually  dwelt, 
was  inaudible.     On  those  occasions 

"  His  soul  was  like  a  star  and  dwelt  apart." 


40 

\Mien  the  semi-centennial  anniversary  of  the  Even- 
ing Post  was  approaching,  I  proposed  to  him  to  pre- 
pare for  its  columns  a  sketch  of  its  career.  He  cheer- 
fully accepted  the  task,  and  in  order  that  he  might  be 
free  from  interruption,  I  recommended  him  to  go  down 
to  his  country-home  at  Roslyn  and  remain  there  until 
it  was  finished,  and  let  me  send  him  there  such  of  the 
files  of  the  paper  as  he  might  have  occasion  to  consult. 
He  rejected  the  proposal  as  abruptly  as  if  I  had 
asked  him  to  offer  sacrifices  to  Apollo.  He  would  al- 
low no  such  work  to  follow  him  there.  Not  even  the 
shadow  of  his  business  must  fall  upon  the  consecrated 
haunts  of  his  muse.  He  rarely  brought  or  sent  any- 
thing from  the  country  for  the  Evening  Post ;  but  if 
he  did,  it  was  easy  to  detect  in  the  character  of  the 
fish  that  they  had  been  caught  in  strange  waters. 
This  separation  of  his  professional  from  his  poetical 
life  must  be  taken  into  account  in  any  effort  to  explain 
the  uniform  esteem  in  which  he  was  always  held  as  a 
poet  by  his  country  people,  while,  not  unfrequently, 
one  of  the  least  popular  of  journalists.  I  have  heard 
his  verses  quoted  in  public  meetings  during  the  earlier 
stages  of  the  anti-slavery  controversy,  where  if  he  had 
appeared  in  person  he  could  have  scarcely  escaped 
outrage.  No  poet  of  eminence  probably  had  less  of 
the  benefit  of  adverse  criticism,  while  as  a  journalist 


41 

he  was  almost  ahva)'s  embattled.  I  can  recall  but  a 
single  instance  in  which  his  verses  became  the  subject 
of  a  controversy,  and  in  that,  he  was,  strictly  speaking, 
neither  the  provoker  of  the  controversy  nor  a  party  to 
it.  Because  of  its  exceptional  character,  I  need  offer 
no  apology  for  quoting  from  his  memorial  discourse 
on  Washington  Irving,  the  language  with  which  he 
himself  saw  fit  to  rescue  the  incident  from  oblivion. 

"  I  should  have  mentioned,  and  I  hope  I  may  do  so  without  much  egotism, 
that  when  a  vokime  of  my  poems  was  published  here  in  1832,  Mr.  Verplanck 
had  the  kindness  to  send  a  copy  of  it  to  Irving,  desiring  him  to  find  a  publisher 
for  it  in  England.  This  he  readily  engaged  to  do,  though  wholly  unacquainted 
with  me,  and  offered  the  volume  to  Murray.  '  Poetry  does  not  sell  at  present,' 
said  Murray,  and  declined  it,  A  bookseller  in  Bond  Street,  named  Andrews, 
undertook  its  publication,  but  required  that  Irving  should  introduce  it  with  a 
preface  of  his  own.  He  did  so,  speaking  of  my  verses  in  such  terms  as  would 
naturally  command  the  attention  of  the  public,  and  allowing  his  name  to  be 
placed  on  the  title-page  as  the  editor.  The  edition  in  consequence  found  a 
sale.  It  happened  however  that  the  publisher  objected  to  two  lines  in  a  poem 
entitled  the  '  Song  of  Marion's  Men.'     One  of  them  was 

'  The  British  soldier  trembles.' 
and  Irving  good  naturedly  consented  that  it  should  be  altered  to 

'  The  foeman  trembles  in  his  camp.' 
The  other  alteration  was  of  a  similar  character. 

To  the  accusations  of  the  Plaindealer  Irving  replied  with  a  mingled  spirit 
and  dignity,  which  almost  makes  us  regret  that  his  faculties  were  not  oftener 
roused  into  energy  by  such  collisions,  or  at  least  that  he  did  not  sometimes 
employ  his  pen  on  controverted  points.  He  fully  vindicated  himself  in  both 
instances,  showing  that  he  had  made  the  alterations  in  my  poem,  from  a  simple 
desire  to  do  me  service.  *  *  *  j^  his  answer  to  the  Plaindealer,  some 
allusions  were  made  to  me  which  seemed  to  imply  that  I  had  taken  part  in  this 
attack.  To  remove  this  impression,  I  sent  a  note  to  the  Plaindealer  for  pub- 
lication, in  which  I  declared  in  substance  that  I  never  had  complained  of  the 
alterations  of  my  poems — that  though  they  were  not  such  as  I  should  have 
made,  I  was  certain  they  were  made  with  the  kindest  intentions,  and  that  I  had 
no  feeling  toward  Mr.  Irving  but  gratitude  for  the  service  he  had  rendered  me. 
The  explanation  was  graciously  accepted,  and  in  a  brief  note  in  the  Plaindealer 
Irving  pronounced  my  acquittal." 


42 

To  judge  of  a  poet,  said  Ben  Johnson,  is  not  the 
faculty  of  all  poets,  but  only  of  the  best.  I  gladly 
avail  myself  of  so  high  an  authority  for  saying  nothing 
of  Bryant's  rank  and  quality  as  a  poet  save  what  may 
with  propriety  be  said  by  one  who  cannot  pretend  to 
be  even  a  poor  poet. 

Bryant  sprang  into  the  world  as  a  .poet  full  grown. 
His  muse  had  no  adolescence.  As  with  Pindar,  the 
bees  swarmed  in  his  mouth  while  yet  a  child.  At 
eighteen  he  took  his  place  as  the  first  poet  of  the 
country,  but  not  to  realize  the  too  common  fate  of 
such  rare  precocity,  and  fall  a  prey  to  the  envy  of  the 
gods,  as  Dryden  puts  it,  who 

"  When  tlieir  gifts  too  lavishly  are  placed 
Soon  they  repent  and  will  not  make  them  last." 

There  is  no  evidence  that  Bryant's  genius  ever  suf- 
fered from  prematurity  of  development.  He  never 
wrote  a  poem  from  the  day  that  "  Thanatopsis"  ap- 
peared until  his  death  that  was  unworthy  of  his  best, 
and  the  cadences  yet  linger  in  the  air  of  those  impres- 
sive lines  with  which  he  commemorated  the  last  birth- 
day of  the  hero  of  our  Republic.  Was  there  ever  a 
more  meritorious  poem  written  by  a  youth  of  eighteen 
than  "  Thanatopsis  ?  "  Was  there  ever  a  nobler,  a 
more  Homeric  thought  more  exquisitely  set  to  verse 
by  an  octogenarian  than  is  developed  in  the  three  last 
stanzas,  which   I   offer  no  apology  for  reciting  from  his 


43 

last   printed  poem,  entitled,  "  The    2 2d  of  February," 
the  birthday  of  Washington  ? 

Lo  where  beneath  an  icy  shield 

Cahnly  the  mighty  Hudson  flows  ! 
By  snow  clad  fell  and  frozen  field 

Broadening  the  mighty  river  goes. 

The  wildest  storm  that  sweeps  through  space, 

And  rends  the  oak  with  sudden  force, 
Can  raise  no  ripple  on  his  face, 

Or  slacken  his  majestic  course. 

Thus  'mid  the  wreck  of  thrones  shall  live 

Unmarred,  undimmed  our  hero's  fame, 
And  years  succeeding  years  shall  give 

Increase  of  honors  to  his  name. 

No  one  will  deny  that  in  one  respect,  at  least, 
Bryant's  fame  was  entirely  unique.  He  was  the 
author  of  the  finest  verses  ever  produced  by  any  one 
so  young  and  so  old  as  the  author  of  "  Thanatopsis" 
and  of  "  The  22d  of  February." 

Because  he  treated  his  poetic  vocation  not  as  a 
business  but  as  an  apostolate,  Bryant,  though  an 
accepted  writer  of  verse  for  nearly  three  quarters  of 
a  century,  was  one  of  the  least  voluminous  of  the 
eminent  poets.  He  published  only  about  166  original 
poems  averaging  60  lines  each.  This  would  give 
about  two  poems,  or  only  i5i  lines  a  year,  which 
seems  very  little  for  one  so  complete  a  master  of 
all   the   arts   of   versification,  to   whom  the  reduction 


44 

of  his  thoughts  to  poetic  measure  was  only  a  pastime. 

Like  Horace,  like  Burns,  like  Beranger,  but  unlike 
most  other  poets  of  celebrity,  Bryant  wrote  no  long 
poems.  I  once  asked  him  why.  He  replied,  "  There 
is  no  such  thing  as  a  long  poem."  His  theory  was 
that  a  long  poem  was  as  impossible  as  a  long  ecstasy  ; 
that  what  is  called  a  long  poem,  like  ''  Paradise  Lost" 
and  the  "  Divine  Comedy,"  is  a  mere  succession  of 
poems  strung  together  upon  a  thread  of  verse  ;  the 
thread  of  verse  serving  sometimes  to  popularize  them 
by  adapting  them  to  a  wider  range  of  literary  taste, 
or  a  more  sluoforish  intellectual  dioestion. 

As  a  consequence  of  the  severe  conscientiousness 
which  ruled  his  tongue  and  consecrated  his  pen,  Bry- 
ant never  wrote  a  poem  which  was  not  winged  with 
a  high  moral  purpose.  He  never  degraded  his  gift 
of  song  to  the  glorification  of  any  of  the  lusts  of  the 
flesh,  the  pride  of  the  eye  or  the  pride  of  life  ;  he 
never  wrote  an  erotic  or  bacchanalian  song  ;  he  never 
burned  incense  upon  the  altars  of  transient  popular 
idols.  He  never  exchanged  praise  for  money  or 
honors,  "  nor  opened  a  shop  for  condolence  or  con- 
gratulation." There  is  perhaps  no  feature  of  Bryant's 
poetry  that  more  faithfully  reflects  the  completeness 
and  admirable  proportions  of  the  man  than  their  free- 
dom from  what  is  transient  and  perishable  ;   from  what 


45 

is  born  of  the  passion,  the  prejudice,  or  the  weakness 
of  the  hour  ;  from  everything  wearing  the  Hvery  of 
the  period.  Following  his  own  advice  to  the  poet, 
slightly  pharaphrased, 

He  let  RO  empty  gust 

Of  passion  find  an  utterance  in  his  lay, 
A  blast  that  whirls  the  dust 

Along  the  crowded  street  and  dies  away  ; 
But  feelings  of  calm  power  and  mighty  sweep, 
Like  currents  journeying  through  the  windless  deep. 

As  water  in  crystalizing  excludes  all  foreign  ingredi- 
ents, and  out  of  acids,  alkalies  and  other  solutions 
yields  a  crystal  of  perfect  purity  and  sweetness,  so 
his  thoughts  in  passing  into  verse  seemed  to  separate 
themselves  from  everything  that  was  transient  or 
vulgar.  His  poems  have  come  to  us  as  completely 
freed  from  every  trace  of  what  is  of  the  earth  earthy 
as  if,  like  St.  Luke's  pictures,  they  had  received  their 
finishing  touch  from  the  angels. 

Bryant's  muse  lacked  those  qualities  which  insure  a 
prompt  and  general  popularity.  It  was  owing  less  I 
think  to  a  lack  in  himself  of  the  qualities  necessary  to 
secure  immediate  acceptance,  than  to  the  presence  of 
qualities  which  consecrated  his  muse  to  more  exalted 
uses.  He  had  an  exquisite  humor,  but  it  was  the  ser- 
vant of  his  thought  and  not  its  master  ;  no  one  could 
tell  a  story  better,  but  his  stories  were  only  the  acces- 
sories to  opinions  of  greater  moment,  the  blossoms  in- 


46 

cident  to  fruiting.  Who  shall  say  that  with  his  won- 
derful mastery  of  the  poetic  art,  had  he  been  disposed, 
he  might  not  have  been  the  popular  satirist  of  the  day, 
or  the  sentimental  favorite  of  the  salon  ;  that  he  micrht 
not  have  excelled  as  a  writer  of  amorous  and  bacchana- 
lian verse,  and  like  too  many  of  our  English  classics, 
have  made  himself  the  idol  of  the  drinkino^  saloon  and 
the  brothel.  The  fact  that  he  never  prostituted  his 
muse  to  any  such  base  uses,  only  proves  that  his 
aims  were  higher  ;  that  he  wished  to  be  the  interpre- 
ter of  universal  truth,  not  of  transitory  opinions  ;  to 
elevate  and  purify,  rather  than  to  amuse  ;  to  quicken 
our  nobler  sensibilities,  rather  than  be  simply  the  in- 
terpreter of  our  baser  natures  ;  and  in  short  he  at- 
tached more  value  to  the  solemn  verdict  of  posterity 
than  to  the  freakish  applause  of  contemporaries. 
Enough  praise  has  never  been  given  to  what  poets  of 
genius  have  sometimes  forborne  to  write.  Dr.  John- 
son in  one  of  his  most  thoucrhtful  communications  to 
the  Idler,  assigns  some  reasons  for  the  comparatively 
short-lived  popularity  of  Hudibras,  the  wittiest  satire 
that  was  ever  penned,  which  will  explain  what  I  ven- 
ture to  predict  will  be  the  more  enduring  fame  of  the 
poems  of  Bryant  : 

"lie  tliat  writes  upon  general  principles  or  delivers  universal  trutlis,  may 
hope  to  be  often  read,  because  his  work  will  be  equally  useful  at  all  times  and 
in  every  country  ;  but  he  cannot  hope  to  be  received  with  eagerness  or  to  spread 


47 

with  rapidity  ;  that  which  is  to  be  loved  long  must  be  loved  with  reason  rather 
than  with  passion.  He  that  lays  out  his  labors  upon  temporary  subjects,  easily 
finds  readers  and  quickly  loses  them  ;  for  what  should  make  the  book  valued 
when  the  subject  is  no  more  ? 

"  These  [observations  will  show  the  reason  why  the  poem  of  Hudibras  is 
almost  forgotten,  however  embellished  with  sentiments  and  diversified  with 
allusions  ;  however  bright  with  wit  and  however  solid  with  truth.  The  hypoc- 
risy which  is  detected  and  the  folly  \vhich  is  ridiculed,  have  long  vanished  from 
public  notice.  Those  who  had  felt  the  mischief  of  discord  and  the  tyranny  of 
usurpation,  read  it  with  rapture,  for  every  line  brought  back  to  memory  some- 
thing known  and  gratified  resentment  by  the  just  censure  of  something  hated. 
But  the  book  that  was  once  quoted  by  princes,  and  which  supplied  conversation 
to  all  the  assemblies  of  the  gay  and  witty,  is  now  seldom  mentioned,  and  even 
by  those  who  affect  to  mention  it,  it  is  seldom  read  ;  so  vainly  is  wit  lavished  upon 
fugitive  topics  ;  so  little  can  architecture  secure  duration  when  the  ground  is 
false."* 

There  are  few  if  any  poems  in  the  collected  edition 
of  Bryant's  works  which  ouo^ht  not  to  be  as  true,  as 
readable  and  as  edifying  a  thousand  years  hence  as 
the  day  they  were  printed,  and,  what  can  be  said  of 
few  poets  with  equal  truth,  as  the  world  grows  better, 
there  is  every  reason  to  presume  that  his  poetry  will 
be  more  highly  and  widely  esteemed. 

Bryant  was  a  philosopher  as  well  as  a  poet,  and 
finds  his  most  appreciative  readers  among  those  whose 
life  has  passed  beyond  the  sensuous  to  the  reflective 
stage.  The  number  who  comprehend  the  full  force  of 
his  poems  at  a  single  reading  is  comparatively  small. 
Every  one  of  his  verses  will  bear  the  supreme  test  of 
a  work  of  literary  art,  which  discloses  a  wider  horizon 
and  new  merits  at  each  successive  perusal. 

*  Idler  No.   50. 


48 

There  seemed  to  be  no  waste  about  Mr.  Bryant's 
life,  and  in  that  respect  he  was  a  phenomenon.  He 
never  put  off  till  the  morrow  the  duty  of  to-day.  He 
was  the  most  punctilious  of  men  about  engagements, 
no  matter  how  trifling  their  character  or  humble  the 
person  or  purpose  to  be  served.  He  seemed  to  have 
every  moment  of  his  time  wisely  appropriated,  and 
every  faculty  of  his  being  always  employed  to  the 
maximum  of  its  capacity.  His  pleasures  and  recrea- 
tions, of  which  he  secured  a  reasonable  share,  were 
always  made  more  or  less  tributary  to  the  symmetry 
of  his  genius  and  character.  So  wisely  were  his 
habits  of  life  regulated,  and  so  perfect  his  self-disci- 
pline, that  he  was  always  in  the  mood  for  his  work. 
He  is  the  only  man  I  ever  knew  who  seemed  to  have 
as. much  capacity  for  literary  labor  one  day  as  another; 
every  day  as  any  day. 

I  once  asked  him  how  it  happened  that  in  a  pro- 
fession generally  so  fatal  to  the  higher  qualities  of 
style  because  of  the  haste  in  which  much  of  its  work 
has  to  be  done,  he  had  managed  for  more  than  half 
a  century  to  preserve  his  style  in  such  purity  and 
perfection.  "If  my  style  has  fewer  defects  than  you 
expect,"  he  said,  ''  it  is  for  the  reason,  I  suppose, 
which  Dr.  Johnson  gave  Boswell  for  conversing  so 
well:   I  always  write  my  best."      "  P)ut,"  I  said,  *'  there 


49 

are  daily  emergencies  when  there  is  no  time  to  choose 
words  and  be  dainty,  when  the  alternative  is  a  hasty 
article  or  none  at  all."  ''  I  would  sooner  the  paper 
would  go  to  press  without  an  editorial  article  than 
send  to  the  printer  one  I  was  not  satisfied  with,"  was 
his  reply. 

Pope  excused  himself  to  one  of  his  correspon- 
dents for  neglect  of  style  and  method  in  his 
familiar  letters,  on  the  ground  that  he  was  writing  to 
a  friend.  I  will  venture  to  say  that  Bryant  never 
offered  or  needed  any  such  excuse  for  himself,  and 
that  he  never  wrote  a  note  to  his  grocer  or  butcher, 
that  In  so  far  as  its  form  and  expression  were  con- 
cerned, was  not  as  faultless  as  if  it  had  been  written 
for  the   press. 

Of  all  the  great  writers  of  English,  I  know  of 
none  in  whose  works  will  be  found  so  few 
words  used  Improperly,  or  so  few  Improper  words. 
Bryant's  marvellous  mastery  of  his  native  tongue  has 
been  often  celebrated,  and  yet  though  persuasive  and 
convincing,  I  don't  remember  that  he  was  ever  elo- 
quent.    Even  In  conversation  he  was  never  fervid. 

Dr.  Johnson  makes  it  a  reproach  to  Pope  that  he 
wrote  his  translation  of  the  Piiad  upon  the  backs  of 
old  letters.  Mr.  Bryant  rarely  wrote  for  the  Evening 
Post  upon  anything  else,  not  as  Johnson  intimated  in 


so 

the  case  of  Pope,  from  a  penny  wise  and  pound  foolish 
parsimony,  but  from  a  principle  which  was  one  of  the 
logical  consequences  of  his  theory  of  human  responsi- 
bility. His  table  was  filled  with  old  letters  on  their 
way  to  the  paper  mill.  They  were  as  serviceable  for 
his  editorial  work  as  if  they  were  fresh  from  it.  He 
used  them  because  he  believed  that  everybod)'  in  the 
world  w^as  made  the  poorer  by  everything  that  is 
wasted,  and  no  one  so  much  as  he  who  wastes,  for  he 
experiences  a  waste  of  character  as  well  as  of  property. 
I  have  said  that  Bryant  was  a  philosopher,  but  he 
w^as  not  in  the  least  metaphysical.  He  came  into  pos- 
session of  the  most  profound  and  important  truths,  by 
sheltering  his  judgment  from  worldly  and  selfish  in- 
fluences, and  by  extirpating  all  evil  and  unworthy 
proclivities.  By  making  his  soul  a  fitting  dwelling- 
place,  wisdom  sought  its  hospitality.  But  he  trusted 
himself  rarely  to  the  open  sea  of  speculation.  His 
mind  was  perfectly  inaccessible  to  crotchets.  Wlien 
he  went  to  war  he  always  equipped  himself  with 
proved  w^eapons.  Yet  he  was  always  open  to  new 
ideas,  and  the  farthest  in  the  world  from  believing  that 
man  had  reached  the  limits  of  knowledge  in  any  di- 
rection. No  man  ever  had  a  profounder  sense  ot  re- 
sponsibility for  what  he  taught  ;  and  while  he  listened 
patiently  when   necessary  to  the  dreams  and  specula- 


51 

tions  of  enthusiasts,  he  never  asked  any  such  indul- 
gence from  his  readers.  He  never  professed  to  be 
wiser  than  everybody  else,  nor  to  see  farther.  He 
never  shocked  the  most  simple-minded  of  his  readers 
by  startling-  novelties  in  thought  or  expression.  He 
never  plucked  truths  before  they  were  ripe.  He  never 
confounded  the  chemist's  laboratory  with  the  kitchen, 
nor  served  his  readers'  table  with  the  products  of  the 
crucible,  or  the  retort. 

It  could  be  said  of  Bryant,  if  of  any  man,  that  he 
had  no  vices.  Neither  had  he  any  time-wasting 
habits.  He  never  consciously  indulged  any  appetite 
or  taste  to  the  prejudice  of  his  health  or  of  any  duty. 
Without  being  in  the  least  an  ascetic,  or  foregoing 
any  of  the  legitimate  pleasures  of  the  table,  he  had 
occasion  to  lose  no  time  in  repairing  forces  exhausted 
by  any  species  of  excess.  I  could  not  conceive  of  his 
indulging  in  anything  which  he  even  suspected  might 
impair  his  mental,  moral  or  physical  efficiency,  merely 
because  it  gave  a  transient  gratification.  He  never 
seemed  to  exercise  self-denial,  so  completely  had  it 
become  the  law  of  his  life  to  do  what  appeared  to  him 
best  to  be  done.  This  was  the  secret  of  his  almost 
miraculous  health,  which  preserved  him  in  the  full 
enjoyment  of  all  his  faculties  up  to  his  last  illness,  and 
which  enabled  him,  after  he  was  seventy  years  of  age, 


52 

to  associate  his  name  imperishably  with  the  greatest 
of  epic  poets,  by  the  least  imperfect  English  transla- 
tion of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  that  has  yet  been  made. 
I  am  warranted  in  saying,  that  until  the  distressing 
accident  which  terminated  his  days,  he  was  never  dis- 
abled by  sickness  within  the  memory  of  any  person 
now  livine. 

"  In  years  he  seemed  but  not  impaired  by  years." 

His  health  responded  so  faithfully  to  the  inexorable 
loyalty  of  his  character,  as  to  go  far  towards  justifying 
Buffon's  theory,  that  the  normal  life  of  man  is  an  hun- 
dred years,  and  that  it  is  due,  not  to  the  use  but  the 
abuse  of  his  organization,  if  he  finds  an  earlier  grave. 

Meeting  him  some  years  ago  and  after  a  somewhat 
prolonged  separation,  I  asked  him  particularly  about 
his  health.  He  said  it  was  so  perfect  he  hardly  dared 
to  speak  of  it.  He  was  not  conscious  from  one  week 
to  another,  he  said,  of  a  physical  sensation  that  he 
would  have  different ;  and  was  forgetting  that  he  was 
liable  to  disease  and  decay.  I  asked  him  for  his 
secret.  He  replied  that  he  did  not  know  that  there 
was  any  secret  al^out  it,  but  he  supposed  he  owed 
much  of  his  health  to  a  habit  formed  in  early  life,  of 
d'jvotin''-  the  first  hour  and  a  half  or  two  hours  after 
leaving  his  bed  in  the  morning,  to  moderate  g)mnastic 
exercise,  after  which  he  took  a  l)ath  and  a  light  break- 


53 

fast,  consisting  usually  of  milk  with  some  kind  of  cereal 
food  and  fruit,  but  no  meat.  At  dinner  he  ate  pretty 
much  what  other  people  ate.  His  evening  meal,  when 
he  did  not  dine  late,  was  much  the  same  as  his  break- 
fast. He  drank  sparingly  of  anything  stronger  than 
water.  He  avoided  all  condiments,  he  used  neither 
tea  nor  coffee,  and  held  tobacco  in  abhorrence.  I  re- 
member the  time  when  he  could  not  stay  in  a  room 
infected  with  the  fumes  of  tobacco,  though  later  in  life 
he  became  less  sensitive  to  its  effects.  He  rarely  al- 
lowed himself  to  be  out  of  bed  after  ten  at  niorht,  or  in 
bed  after  five  in  the  morning.  To  these  habits  and 
regimen  he  said  he  attributed  in  a  great  measure  his 
exceptionally  good  health.  Not  many  weeks  before 
his  death,  and  when  recovering  from  a  slight  indispo- 
sition which  he  had  been  describing  to  me  (he  was 
then  approaching  his  eighty-fourth  year),  I  said,  "  I 
presume  you  have  reduced  your  allowance  of  morning 
gymnastics."  "  Not  the  width  of  your  thumb  nail," 
was  his  prompt  reply.  *'  What,"  said  I,  "  do  you  man- 
age still  '  to  put  in  '  your  hour  and  a  half  every  morn- 
ing?" *' Yes,"  he  replied,  ''and  sometimes  more; 
frequently  more."  This  I  have  always  regarded  as  a 
signal  triumph  of  character.  As  the  glaciers  testify  to 
the  almost  incalculable  power  of  the  sun  which  piles 
them  upon  the  peaks  of  the  loftiest  mountains,  so  this 


54 

resolute  and  conscientious  prosecution  of  a  toil  which 
directly  furthered  no  personal  or  worldly  end,  which 
added  nothincr  of  value  to  his  stock  of  knowledge, 
which  gratified  neither  his  own  nor  any  other  person's 
vanit)^  or  ambition,  which  deprived  him  of  a  good  pro- 
portion of  the  best  working  hours  of  his  day,  testified 
with  unimpeachable  authority  to  the  heroic  moral 
forces  of  which  his  will,  his  tastes,  his  ambition,  were 
always  the  patient  and  cheerful  instruments.  It  was 
the  foot  of  Hercules.  When  you  reflect  to  what 
precious  uses,  to  what  rare  delights  he  could  have 
consecrated  these  morning  hours,  had  he  felt  at 
liberty  to  so  divert  them  ;  and  when  you  consider 
how  few  there  are  who  can  foreo^o  their  ciirar,  their 
glass  of  wine  or  any  other  customary  indulgence, 
even  after  they  have  become  aware  that  its  effects 
upon  them  are  pernicious  ;  how  rare  it  is  to  find  a 
man  engaged  in  intellectual  pursuits,  who  will  take  the 
exercise  which  he  knows  that  he  requires,  though  al- 
ready consciously  a  prey  to  disease  from  neglect  of  it, 
you  will  scarcely  accuse  me  of  exaggerating  the  im- 
portance of  the  incident  to  which  I  have  referred,  nor 
deny  that  it  represents  a  quality  of  heroism  much 
easier  to  admire  than  to  imitate,  and  which  is  only  ex- 
hibited by  characters  of  the  most  symmetrical  mould. 
Bryant  had  a  marvellous  memory.     His  familiarity 


55 

with  the  English  poets  was  such  that  when  at  sea, 
where  he  was  always  too  111  to  read  much,  he  would 
beguile  the  time  by  reciting  page  after  page  from 
favorite  poems.  He  assured  me  that,  however  long 
the  voyage,  he  had  never  exhausted  his  resources.  I 
once  proposed  to  send  for  a  copy  of  a  magazine  In 
which  a  new  poem  of  his  was  announced  to  appear. 
"  You  need  not  send  for  It,"  said  he,  "  I  can  give  It 
to  you."  "  Then  you  have  a  copy  with  you,"  said  I. 
''  No,"  he  replied,  ''  but  I  can  recall  It,"  and  thereupon 
proceeded  Immediately  to  write  It  out.  I  congratu- 
lated him  upon  having  such  a  faithful  memory.  ''  l( 
allowed  a  little  time,"  he  replied,  "  I  could  recall  every 
line  of  poetry  I  have  ever  written."  Yet  he  rarely 
quoted,  and  never  In  a  foreign  tongue.  This  Is  the 
more  noticeable  as  he  was  scarcely  less  familiar  with 
the  languages  and  literatures  of  Germany,  France  and 
Spain  ;  of  ancient  and  modern  Greece  and  of  ancient 
and  modern  Rome  than  with  that  of  his  own  country, 
and  he  spoke  all  of  those  that  are  now  classed  among 
the  living  languages,  except  the  modern  Greek,  with 
considerable  facility  and  surprising  correctness. 

He  rated  his  memory  at  Its  true  value  and  never 
abused  It.  It  was  a  blooded  steed  which  he  never 
degraded  to  the  uses  of  a  pack  horse.  Hence  he  was 
fastidious   about   his   reading   as   about    his  compan}', 


56 

believing  there  was  no  worse  thief  than  a  bad  book  ; 
but  he  never  tired  of  writers  who  have  best  stood  the 
test  of  time.  He  had  Httle  taste  for  historical  readintr. 
Indeed  the  habits  of  his  mind  were  not  at  all  in 
sympathy  with  the  inductive  method  of  reaching  new 
truths  or  propagating  them.  He  often  deplored  the 
increasing  neglect  of  the  old  English  classics,  which 
our  modern  facilities  for  printing  were  displacing. 
Johnson's  lives  of  the  poets  was  one  of  his  favorite 
books.  Pope,  who  has  educated  more  poets  in  the 
art  of  verse  making  than  any  other  modern  author, 
was,  from  his  early  youth,  his  pocket  companion.  I 
think  he  had  studied  him  more  carefully  than  any  other 
English  writer,  and  was  specially  impressed  by  his  wit. 
One  day  as  I  was  looking  over  the  books  on  the 
shelves  of  his  library  at  Roslyn,  he  called  my  attention 
to  his  position.  ''  There,"  said  he,  ''  I  have  fallen 
quite  accidentally  into  the  precise  attitude  in  which 
Pope  is  commonly  represented,  with  his  forehead 
resting  on  his  fingers."  He  then  got  up  to  look  for 
an  illustration  among  his  books.  He  did  not  find 
what  he  sought,  but  he  brought  two  other  editions, 
each  representing  Pope  with  an  abundance  of  hair 
on  his  head,  one  an  old  folio  containing  a  collection 
of  Pope's  verses,  written  before  he  was  twenty-five 
years  of  age. 


57 

I  asked  him  if  he  had  seen  the  new  edition  of 
Pope's  works  which  Ehvin  was  editing.  He  said  he 
had  not,  nor  heard  of  it.  I  then  told  him  that  Ehvin 
left  Pope  scarcely  a  si-ngle  estimable  personal  quality, 
and  had  stripped  him  of  a  good  share  of  the  literary 
laurels  which  he  had  hitherto  worn  in  peace.  He 
promptly  said  that  he  did  not  care  to  see  it ;  that  he 
was  not  disposed  to  trust  such  a  judgment,  however 
ingeniously  defended.  He  then  quoted  Young's  lines 
on  Pope,  ''  Sweet  as  his  own  Homer,  his  life  melo- 
dious as  his  verse."  That,  said  he,  is  the  judgment 
of  a  contemporary.  He  then  read  some  lines  from 
other  poets  in  farther  defence  of  his  favorite.  He  was 
unwilling  to  have  his  idea  of  Pope  disturbed,  and  when 
I  suggested  that  he  should  get  Ehvin,  he  said,  *'  No,  I 
want  no  better  edition  than  Warburton's,  the  edition 
that  was  in  my  father's  library,  and  which  I  read  when 
a  boy."  Bryant's  admiration  of  Pope  is  the  more 
remarkable,  as  two  characters  more  unlike  could  not 
be  readily  imagined. 

No  prose  writer  since  Queen  Anne's  period  received 
from  him  such  frequent  commendation  as  Southey, 
whose  prose  seemed  to  have  impressed  him  more 
than  his  poetry.  He  shared  little  of  the  popular 
enthusiasm  for.Macauley.  I  don't  remember  to  have 
heard  him  ever  cite  a  line  or  an   opinion   of   Byron, 


58 

who  was  never  one  of  his  favorites.  Some  twenty- 
five  or  thirty  years  ago  a  person  claiming  to  be  a  son 
of  the  poet  appeared  in  New  York  with  some  poems 
and  letters  which  he  said  had  been  written  and  given 
him  by  Byron,  and  for  which  he  sought  to  find  a 
market  among  our  publishers.  I  spoke  of  the  matter 
one  day  to  Brvant,  and  his  reply  surprised  me  more 
than  it  would  have  done  after  my  opinions  of  Byron 
were  more  settled.  Looking  up  with  an  expression 
which  implied  more  than  he  uttered,  he  said,  "  I  think 
we  have  poems  enough  of  Byron  already." 

Horace  sought  to  comfort  his  friend  Maecenas  in  a 
threatening  illness  by  the  assurance  that  he  could 
never  survive  him.  So  soon,  he  said,  as  you  will 
show  me  the  way,  let  me  be  permitted  to  make  the 
long  journey  with  you.  His  prayer  was  not  denied 
him.  Within  a  few  days  after  the  decease  of  that 
eminent  and  virtuous  statesman,  the  Roman  people 
were  called  to  the  funeral  of  their  greatest  poet.  It  is 
a  pleasing  coincidence  in  the  lives  of  these  illustrious 
bards,  in  such  distant  ages  born,  that  Brvant  prayed, 
and  not  in  vain,  that  his  last  hours  also  miirht  be 
specially  conditioned. 

That  when  he  came  to  lie 


At  rest  within  the  ground, 
'T  were  pleasant  that  in  flowery  June, 
When  brooks  send  up  a  cheerful  sound, 
The  Sexton's  hand,  his  grave  to  make, 
The  rich  crcen  mountain-turf  should  break. 


59 

Nor  did  the  coincidence  end  here.  A  correspond- 
ing aversion  to  any  species  of  pomp  and  display  at 
their  funeral  animated  both,  and  the  very  words  by 
which  Horace  expressed  his  wishes  upon  this  subject, 
most  exactly  express  the  injunction  upon  that  subject 
imposed  upon  his  family  by  our  American  poet. 

Absint  inani  fuiiere  n£eni?e, 
Luctusque  turpes,  et  querimonias  : 
Compesce  clamorem,  ac  sepulcri, 
JVIitte  supervacuos  honores.* 

His  wishes  were  carefully  studied.  With  the  sim- 
plest ceremonies  of  the  church  of  which  he  was  at 
once  a  pillar  and  an  ornament,  conducted  by  the  pas- 
tor whose  hands  had  been  used  to  break  to  him  the 
bread  of  life,  and  on  one  of  the  loveliest  days  of  flow- 
ery June  that  the  sun  of  Long  Island  ever  shed  its 
golden  light  upon,  his  mortal  remains  were  consigned 
to  their  last  resting-place,  beside  the  tomb  of  her, 
whose  disembodied  spirit 

"  Lovelier  in  heaven's  sweet  climate,  yet  the  same," 

his  had  already  joined.  He  seemed  to  leave  this 
world  with  no  wish,  no  ambition  unsatisfied.  His  life 
showed  no  trace  of  disappointment.  He  had  never 
allowed  himself  to  desire  what  it  did  not  please  the 
Master  to  send  to  him,  nor  to  repine  for  anything  that 
was  denied  him.  "Thy  will  be  done,"  was  the  daily 
prayer,  not  only  of  his  lips  but  of  his  heart  and  life. 

*  Hor.  Carm.  2,  xvii. 


6o 

Mr.  Bryant  used  to  say  that  a  gentleman  should 
never  talk  of  his  love  affairs  or  of  his  religion.  So  far 
as  I  know,  he  practiced  as  he  preached.  There  was 
no  subject  which  for  many  years  appeared  to  occupy 
more  of  his  thoughts  than  religion,  none  about  which 
he  seemed  more  willing  to  listen,  but  of  his  own  spirit- 
ual experiences  he  was  singularly  reticent.  I  do  not 
remember  to  have  ever  heard  him  define  his  creed 
upon  any  point  of  theology,  or  give  utterance  to  a 
single  dogma  ;  neither  do  I  believe  such  an  utterance 
can  be  found  in  an)'  of  his  writings  ;  though  so  pro- 
found were  his  religious  feelings  and  convictions,  that 
they  found  expression  In  a  series  of  exquisite  devo- 
tional hymns,  which  I  trust  may  some  day  be  given 
to  the  public.  In  matters  of  religion,  his  modesty  was 
as  conspicuous  as  in  everything  else  ;  he  was  never 
betrayed  Into  citing  his  own  example  or  his  own  opin- 
ions as  an  authority  to  anyone  else. 

But  It  maybe  asked,  had  this  '' inonstritm  pcrfec- 
tionis  "  no  faults  ?  Bryant  was  born  to  the  same  sin- 
ful inheritance  as  the  rest  of  us  ;  but  I  can  say  of  him 
with  perfect  truth,  that  with  his  faults  he  was  alwa)s 
at  war.  No  one  better  than  he,  knew  the  enemies 
with  which  the  human  heart  is  alwa\\s  beslecfcd  ;  the 
enemies  of  his  own  household  ;  and  few  men  ever 
fought    them     more     vallantl)',    more    perslstentl}'    or 


6i 

more  successfully.  Those  who  only  knew  him  in  his 
later  years  would  scarcely  believe  that  he  had  been 
endowed  b)'  nature  with  a  very  quick  and  passionate 
temper.  He  never  entirely  overcame  it,  but  he  held 
every  impulse  of  his  nature  to  such  a  rigorous  ac- 
countability, that  few  have  ever  suspected  the  strug- 
gles with  which  he  purchased  the  self-control  which 
constituted  one  of  the  conspicuous  graces  of  his  char- 
acter. Bryant  had  his  faults,  but  he  made  of  them 
agents  of  purification.  He  learned  from  them  humility 
and  faith  ;  a  wise  distrust  of  himself,  and  an  unfalter- 
ine  trust  in  Him,  throutrh  whose  aid  he  was  strength- 
ened  to  keep  them  in  abeyance.  By  God's  help  he 
converted  the  tears  of  his  angels  into  pearls. 

It  was  this  constant  and  successful  warfare  upon 
every  unworthy  and  degrading  propensity  that  sought 
an  asylum  in  his  heart,  that  made  him  such  a  moral 
force  in  the  country,  that  invested  any  occasion  to 
which  he  lent  his  presence  with  an  especial  dignity  ; 
that  gave  to  his  personal  example  a  peculiar  power 
and  authority.  No  one  could  be  much  in  the  society 
of  Bryant  without  feeling  more  respect  for  himself, 
without  beincr  conscious  that  his  better  nature  had 
been  awakened  to  a  higher  activity  ;  without  an  in- 
creased reluctance  to  say  or  do  anything  which  Bryant 
himself  under  similar  circumstances  would  probably 
not  have  said  or  done. 


62 

Though  not  at  all  given  to  speak  of  himself  or  of 
his  own  habits  or  methods  of  life  as  a  guide  for  others, 
the  radiance  of  his  example  had  a  peculiar  efficacy. 
Like  the  shadow  of  St.  Peter,  upon  whomsoever  it  fell 
it  seemed  to  exert  a  healing  influence.  In  that  bright 
example  he  still  lives.  To  a  life  so  full  of  wisdom  and 
virtue,  so  complete  and  symmetrical,  there  is  change, 
there  is  growth,  but  there  is  no  death.  The  attributes 
of  God  are  imperishable. 


63 


POEM  BY  R.  H.  STODDARD. 


THE  DEAD  MASTER. 

It  is  appointed  unto  man  to  die. 

Where  Life  is  Death  is,  dominating  Life, 

Wresting  the  scepter  from  its  feeble  grasp, 

And  trampHng  on  its  dust.     From  the  first  hour 

When  the  first  child  upon  its  mother's  breast 

Lay  heavily,  with  no  breath  on  its  cold  lips. 

To  the  last  hour  when  the  last  man  shall  die. 

And  the  race  be  extinct — Death  never  came, 

Nor  will  come,  without  apprehension. 

The  dying  may  be  ready  to  depart. 

For  sleep  and  death  are  one  to  them  ;  but  we 

Who  love  them,  and  survive  them — unto  whom 

The  places  they  once  filled  are  filled  no  more. 

For  whom  a  liofht  has  eone  out  of  the  sun, 

A  shadow  fallen  on  noonday, — unto  us. 

Who  love  our  dead.  Death  always  comes  too  soon, 

A  consternation,  and  a  lamentation. 


64  i 

The  sorrow  of  all  sorrows,  till  in  turn 
We  follow  them,  and  others  mourn  for  us. 


This  tragic  lesson  of  mortality 

The  Master  who  hath  left  us  learned  In  youth, 

When  the  Muse  found  him  wandering  by  the  stream 

That  sparkled,  singing,  at  his  father's  door — 

The  first  Muse  whom  the  New  World,  lovlncr  lone, 

Wooed  in  the  depths  of  her  old  solitude. 

The  green,  untrodden,  world-wide  wilderness 

Surrendered  to  the  soul  of  this  young  man 

The  secret  of  its  silence.     Centuries  passed  ; 

The  red  man  chased  the  deer,  and  tracked  the  bear 

To  his  hl^h  mountain  den — but  he  came  not. 

The  white  man  followed  ;  the  great  woods  were  felled. 

And  In  the  clearings  cottage  smokes  arose, 

And  fields  were  white  with  harvests  :  he  came  not. 

The  New  World  waited  for  him,  and  the  words 

Which  should  disburden  the  dumb  mystery 

That  darkened  its  strange  life  when  summer  days 

Steeped  the  green  boughs  with  light,  and  winter  nights 

Looked  down  like  Death  upon  the  dead,  old  world  ; 

For  what  was  Earth  but  the  great  tomb  of  man, 

And  suns  and  planets  but  sepulchral  urns 

rallied  with  the  awful  ashes  of  the  Past  ? 


65 

Such  was  the  first  sad  message  to  mankind 

Of  this  young  poet,  who  was  never  young, 

So  heavily  the  old  burden  of  the  Earth 

Weighed  on  his  soul  from  boyhood.     Yet  not  less, 

Not  less,  but  more,  he  loved  her  ;  for  if  she 

Was  sombre  with  her  secret  she  was  still 

Beautiful  as  a  goddess  ;  and  if  he 

Should  one  day  look  upon  her  face  no  nn^re. 

He  would  not  cease  to  look  till  that  day  came  : 

For  he  for  life  was  dedicate  to  her. 

The  inspiration  of  his  earliest  song, 

The  happy  memory  of  his  sterner  years, 

The  consolation  of  his  ripe,  old  age. 

What  she  was  to  the  eyes  of  lesser  men, 

Which  only  glance  at  the  rough  husk  of  things, 

She  never  was  to  him  ; — but  day  and  night 

A  loveliness,  a  might,  a  mystery, 

A  Presence  never  wholly  understood. 

The  broken  shadow  of  some  unknown  Power, 

W^hich  overflows  all  forms,  but  is  not  Form — 

The  inscrutable  Spirit  of  the  Universe! 

High-priest  whose  temple  was  the  woods,  he  felt 

Their  melancholy  grandeur,  and  the  awe 

That  ancientness  and  solitude  beget, 

Strange  intimations  of  invisible  things, 

Which,  while  they  seem  to  sadden,  give  delight, 


And  hurt  not,  but  persuade  the  soul  to  prayer  : 
For,  silent  in  the  barren  ways  of  men. 
Under  green  roofs  of  overhanging  boughs, 
Where  the  Creator's  hands  are  never  stayed. 
The  soul  recovers  her  forgotten  speech. 
The  lost  religion  of  her  Infancy. 


Nature  hath  sacred  seasons  of  her  own. 
And  reverent  poets  to  interpret  them. 
But  she  hath  other  singers,  unto  whom 
The  twinkle  of  a  dew-drop  in  the  grass, 
The  sudden  singing  of  an  unseen  bird, 
The  pensive  brightness  of  the  evening  star, 
Are  revelations  of  a  loveliness 
For  which  there  Is  no  language  known  to  man, 
Except  the  eloquent  language  of  the  e}'e, 
Hushed  with  the  fulness  of  her  happiness  ! 
What  may  be  known  of  these  recondite  things 
Our  grave,  sweet  poet  knew  :  for  unto  him 
The  Goddess  of  the  Earth  revealed  herself 
As  to  no  other  poet  of  the  time. 
Save  only  him  who  slumbers  at  Grasmere. 
His  Brother, — not  his  Master.     From  the  hour 
When  first  he  wandered  by  his  native  stream 
To  crop  the  violets  growing  on  its  banks, 


67 

And  list  to  the  brown  thrasher's  vernal  hymn, 

To  the  last  hour  of  his  long,  honored  life, 

He  never  faltered  in  his  love  of  Nature. 

Recluse  with  men,  her  dear  society, 

Welcome  at  all  times,  savored  of  content, 

Brightened  his  happy  moments,  and  consoled 

His  hours  of  gloom.     A  student  of  the  woods 

And  of  the  fields,  he  was  their  calendar, — 

Knew  when  the  first  pale  wind-flower  would  appear. 

And  when  the  last  wild-fowl  would  take  its  flight  ; 

Where  the  cunning  squirrel  had  his  granary. 

And  where  the  industrious  bee  had  stored  her  sweets. 

Go  where  he  would,  he  was  not  solitary. 

Flowers  nodded  gayly  to  him — wayside  brooks 

Slipped  by  him  laughingly,  while  the  emulous  birds 

Showered  lyric  raptures  that  provoked  his  own. 

The  winds  were  his  companions  on  the  hills — 

The  clouds,  and  thunders — and  the  glorious  Sun, 

Whose  bright  beneficence  sustains  the  world, — 

A  visible  symbol  of  the  Omnipotent, 

Whom  not  to  worship  were  to  be  more  blind 

Than  those  of  old  who  worshipped  stocks  and  stones. 


Who  loves  and  lives  with  Nature  tolerates 
Baseness  in  nothing  ;  high  and  solemn  thoughts 


6S 

Are  his, — clean  deeds  and  honorable  life. 

If  he  be  poet,  as  our  Master  was, 

His  song  will  be  a  mighty  argument, 

Heroic  in  Its  structure  to  support 

The  weight  of  the  world  forever  !     All  great  things 

Are  native  to  it,  as  the  Sun  to  Heaven. 

Such  was  thy  song,  O  Master  !  and  such  fame 

As  only  the  kings  of  thought  receive,  is  thine  ; 

Be  happy  with  It  in  thy  larger  life 

Where  Time  Is  not,  and  the  sad  word — Farewell  ! 


69 


POEM  BY  E.  C.  STEDMAN 


THE  DEATH  OF  BRYANT. 

How  was  It  then  with  Nature  when  the  soul 

Of  her  own  poet  heard  a  voice  which  came 
From  out  the  void,  "  Thou  art  no  lono^er  lent 
To  Earth !  "  when  that  Incarnate  spirit,  blent 
With  the  abiding  force  of  waves  that  roll. 

Wind-cradled  vapors,  circling  stars  that  flame, 
She  did  recall  ?     How  went 
His  antique  shade,  beaconed  upon  Its  way 
Through  the  still  aisles  of  night  to  universal  day  ? 


Her  voice  It  was,  her  sovereign  voice,  which  bade 
The  Earth  resolve  his  elemental  mould  ; 

And  once  more  came  her  summons  :  "  Lonor,  too  lone* 

Thou  llngerest,  and  charmest  with  thy  song ! 

Return  !  retiuni  /  "     Thus  Nature  spoke,  and  made 
Her  sign  ;   and  forthwith  on  the  minstrel  old 
An  arrow,  bright  and  strong, 


^o 


Fell  from  the  bent  bow  of  the  answering  Sun, 

Who  cried,  "  The  sonor  Is  closed,  the  Invocation  done! 


But  not  as  for  those  youths  dead  ere  their  prime, 

New-entered  on  their  music's  high  domain, 
Then  snatched  away,  did  all  things  sorrow  own  : 
No  utterance  now  like  that  sad  sweetest  tone 
When  Bion  died,  and  the  Sicilian  rhyme 

Bewailed;   no  sobbing  of  the  reeds  that  plain, 
Rehearsing  some  last  moan 
Of  Lycldas  ;   no  strains  which  skyward  swell 
For  Adonais  still,  and  still  for  Astrophel ! 


The  Muses  wept  not  for  him  as  for  those 

Of  w^hom  each  vanished  like  a  beauteous  star 

Quenched  ere  the  shining  midwatch  of  the  night ; 

The  greenwood  Nymphs  mourned  not  his  lost  delight, 

Nor  Echo,  hidden  In  the  tangled  close. 

Grieved  that  she  could  not  mimic  him  afar. 
He  ceased  not  from  our  sight 

Like  him  who,  in  the  first  glad  flight  of  Spring, 

Fell  as  an  eagle  pierced  with  shafts  from  his  own  wing. 


This  was  not  Thyrsis !  no,  the  minstrel  lone 
And  reverend,  the  woodland  singer  hoar, 
Who  was  dear  Nature's  nursling,  and  the  priest 
Whom  most  she  loved  ;   nor  had  his  office  ceased 
But  for  her  mandate  :  "  Seek  again  thine  own  ; 
The  walks  of  men  shall  draw  thy  steps  no  more !  " 
Softly,  as  from  a  feast 
The  guest  departs  that  hears  a  low  recall. 
He  went,  and  left  behind  his  harp  and  coronal. 


"  Return  !  "  she  cried,  "  unto  thine  own  return  ! 

Too  long  the  pilgrimage  ;  too  long  the  dream 
In  which,  lest  thou  shouldst  be  companlonless. 
Unto  the  oracles  thou  hadst  access, — 
The  sacred  groves  that  with  my  presence  yearn." 

The    voice    was    heard    by    mountain,    dell,    and 
stream, 

Meadow  and  wilderness, — 
All  fair  things  vestured  by  the  changing  year, 
Which  now  awoke  in  joy  to  welcome  one  most  dear. 


''  He  comes  !  "  declared  the  unseen  ones  that  haunt 

The  dark  recesses,  the  infinitude 
Of  whispering  old  oaks  and  soughing  pines. 
''  He  comes  !  "  the  warders  of  the  forest  shrines 


72 

Sang  joyously,     "  His  spirit  ministrant 

Henceforth  with  us  shall  walk  the  underwood, 
Till  mortal  ear  divines 
Its  music  added  to  our  choral  hymn, 
Rising  and  falling  far  through  archways  deep  and  dim !  " 


The  orchard  fields,  the  hill-side  pastures  green, 

Put  gladness  on  ;  the  rippling  harvest- wave 
Ran  like  a  smile,  as  if  a  moment  there 
His  shadow  poised  in  the  midsummer  air 
Above  ;  the  cataract  took  a  pearly  sheen 
Even  as  it  leapt ;  the  winding  river  gave 
A  sound  of  welcome  where 
He  came,  and  trembled,  far  as  to  the  sea 
It   moves   from   rock-ribbed    hei^rhts    where    its    dark 
fountains  be. 


His  presence  brooded  on  the  rolling  plain. 

And  on  the  lake  there  fell  a  sudden  calm, — 
His  own  tranquillity  ;  the  mountain  bowed 
Its  head,  and  felt  the  coolness  of  a  cloud, 
And  murmured,  "  He  is  passing  !  "  and  again 
Through  all  its  firs  the  wind  swept  like  a  psalm  ; 
Its  eagles,  thunder-browed, 


n 


In  that  mist- moulded  shape  their  kinsman  knew, 
And  circled  high,  and  in  his  mantle  soared  from  view. 


So  drew  he  to  the  living  veil,  which  hung 
Of  old  above  the  deep's  unimaged  face. 

And  sought  his  own.     Henceforward  he  is  free 

Of  vassalage  to  that  mortality 

Which  men  have  given  a  sepulchre  among 
The  pathways  of  their  kind, — a  resting-place 
Where,  bending  one  great  knee, 

Knelt  the  proud  mother  of  a  mighty  land 

In  tenderness,  and  came  anon  a  plumed  band. 


Came  one  by  one  the  Seasons,  meetly  drest. 

To  sentinel  the  relics  of  their  seer. 
First  Spring — upon  whose  head  a  wreath  was  set 
Of  wind-flowers  and  the  yellow  violet — 
Advanced.     Then  Summer  led  his  loveliest 

Of  months,  one  ever  to  the  minstrel  dear 
(Her  sweet  eyes  dewy  wet), 
June,  and  her  sisters,  whose  brown  hands  entwine 
The  brier-rose  and  the  bee-haunted  columbine. 


74 

Next,  Autumn,  like  a  nionarch  sad  of  heart, 

Came,  tended  b)'  his  melancholy  days. 
Purple  he  wore,  and  bore  a  golden  rod, 
His  sceptre  ;   and  let  fall  upon  the  sod 
A  lone  fringed-gentian  ere  he  would  depart. 

Scarce  had  his  train  gone  darkling  down  the  ways 
When  Winter  thither  trod, — 
Winter,  with  beard  and  raiment  blown  before, 
That  was  so  seeming  like  our  poet  old  and  hoar. 


What  forms  are  these  amid  the  pageant  fair 

Harping  with  hands  that  falter?     What  sad  throng.^ 
They  wait  in  vain,  a  mournful  brotherhood, 
And  listen  where  their  laurelled  elder  stood 
F'or  some  last  music  fallen  throuirh  the  air. 

"  What  cold,  thin  atmosphere  now  hears  thy  song?" 
They  ask,  and  long  have  wooed 
The  woods  and  waves  that  knew  him,  but  can  learn 
Naught  save  the  hollow,  haunting  cry,  "  Return  !  re- 
turn !  " 


